


Like Lonely Ghosts

by Lauralot



Series: Alexander Pierce should have died slower [14]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Non-Sexual Age Play, Past Brainwashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-30 04:43:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3923359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Bucky tracked down Brock Rumlow, it was about closure.</p><p>So why is he going back?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Lonely Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Major thanks to [WritingCyan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingCyan/pseuds/WritingCyan) for inspiring large portions of this fic, including some of the dialogue about attack dogs.
> 
> You may have noticed the "Canon Divergence" tag on this story. That doesn't mean this fic is set in a different universe from the rest of the series, but that I've decided this series does not take the events of _Avengers: Age of Ultron_ into its canon. Without getting into spoilers, this is simply because a number of things in the film would clash with what is already established for the series. With that said, I may incorporate elements of AoU down the line.

  
**The devil that you know**  
**Is better than the one you don’t, and so it goes**  
**Like lonely ghosts at a roadside cross**  
**We stay because we don’t know where else to go**  
— “Lonely Ghosts,” O+S

  


Technically, Steve’s never said Bucky can’t go to Rumlow’s apartment.

Sure, Steve doesn’t _know_ Bucky’s been there, and guilt churns in Bucky’s stomach even as he’s ascending the fire escape, but it’s not his fault Steve hasn’t worked it out. It’s not. Bucky was wearing the tracking bracelet on the night he confronted Rumlow. Steve could have checked the data from it, but he hasn’t. Bucky pretends that’s because Steve trusts him to watch out for himself, and not because Steve is too noble to snoop into the business of a man who hasn’t had privacy in seventy years.

The bracelet is like a lead weight around his ankle as he trudges up the steps. He’s allowed to leave the tower without supervision now. Steve said so, and his therapists had agreed. So there’s no reason to feel rotten about this. Bucky’s not doing anything wrong.

Yeah, right.

Steve’s not home this weekend. It isn’t a mission; Bucky thinks he’s explained it as some sort of government banquet or ceremony. Something to do with veterans.

Bucky wonders what they think of Steve sometimes, the veterans. How does it feel to be old, weak, and sick, maybe blown half to hell, and see before you a young, powerful man, beautiful, whole? He wonders if they hate him, if they sit there feeling disgust boil inside them.

Then, sickened with himself, he shakes off the thought. Steve isn’t whole. He’s suffered. Sometimes, when his guard slips just for a second, Bucky thinks he can actually see the broken pieces of Steve shifting. He’ll look so tired, so done, and the lines of his irises seem like shards held into place by sheer force of will.

Steve is Bucky’s rock, his candle on the water. He’s a work of art. But it seems to Bucky in those moments that Steve’s a masterpiece in blown glass, and Bucky’s like an anvil pressing down onto him. And maybe that’s why Steve speaks at all these charities and government functions. Maybe that’s why Bucky’s started taking so many walks.

He’s not sure what it is that compels him toward Rumlow.

The window he used to enter the living room last time is unlocked. There aren’t any nails through the bottom of the frame trying to pin it to the sill. Irritation wells through Bucky, threatening to boil over. He’s a threat, damn it, not just some broken child. If anyone should still acknowledge that, it ought to be a former handler.

But he stamps down his anger as quickly as it rises. Rumlow is well-aware that the Winter Soldier is dangerous. Too aware to think a few nails through the window frame could keep him out.

Maybe he wants the Soldier to finish him off. There are far less glorious deaths.

Bucky shifts his bear to his right hand, easing up the window pane with his left. As with the last visit, he doesn’t bother for silence. It’s not compassion; if he startles Rumlow into a fatal heart attack, then who is he going to annoy?

He’s probably here to annoy the man. He’s not really sure.

This time, Rumlow’s not on the couch. From the bedroom—and how could Rumlow afford more than a one room apartment? The bedroom must be the size of a matchbox—there’s movement, creaking springs. The place looks much as it did when Bucky last saw it, though the dust is a little thicker now. Maybe Rumlow’s realized there’s no one around to impress with the illusion of order.

And then Rumlow’s there, emerging from a narrow hall smaller than Bucky’s closet at the tower. He’s not fully dressed, clothed in an oversized t-shirt that just allows a hint of his boxers to peek out below the hem. Bucky’s first thought is, _He hasn’t left his bed all day._

His second thought is, _Good._

Rumlow’s scars are on full display now, or at least as much as Bucky’s ever seen them. The healed burns on his limbs aren’t nearly as subtle as the marks on his face and hands. They’re red, raw. A handful of times on missions, the Soldier had been on the receiving end of burn wounds. Looking at the patchwork that was once Rumlow’s skin, Bucky can remember the searing pain, the heat that seemed trapped within his flesh. He doesn’t try to imagine the sensations without an enhanced healing factor. He doesn’t want to.

He’s distracted enough by the scarring that it takes him nearly ten second to notice the bat.

Rumlow’s leaning the baseball bat against the wall, clearly realizing it would be of no help against an angry super soldier. There’s a flush through his face that Bucky doesn’t think is caused by the damaged tissue, but he’s expressionless as ever when he says “I can’t believe you carry that in public.”

He tightens his hold on Bucky Bear just a fraction, evenly replying, “Can’t believe you worked with me for fourteen years and you can’t recognize my footsteps.”

“What can I say?” Rumlow shrugs. He nearly camouflages the little spasm through his shoulders at the end of the movement. “Wishful thinking. So where’s your babysitter hiding this time? The fridge?”

“Least then you’d have something inside it.” Bucky takes another glance around the tiny, dusty apartment, running his fingers along the buttons on the bear’s jacket. “I’m allowed out on my own, you know.”

“Congratulations,” Rumlow drawls, and the sarcasm, the dismissal in his tone sends a flare of anger through Bucky that’s as bright as it is pathetic.

Because it _had_ been a big deal, being allowed that freedom. It had seemed like such a huge step toward normalcy, being trusted to look out for himself on the streets of New York. He’d been thrilled.

And all it takes it one word from Rumlow to bring reality crashing down. What kind of nearly thirty year-old is excited to be allowed outside? What adult clings to a teddy bear wherever he goes?

He swallows down the anger, feeling so burning hot it’s a wonder he’s not glowing. “Yeah. It’s nice to know no one’s watching my every step.”

It’s satisfying, seeing Rumlow’s smug disregard give way to anger and anxiety. Pity that it fades before Bucky can take out his phone to immortalize the moment. “Thought I wasn’t worth your friends’ time?”

Bucky shrugs. “Everyone has slow days.” He turns from Rumlow, walking toward the couch. A laptop sits on one of the cushions. It’s not the one that Bucky had shipped here, but he already knew Rumlow hadn’t kept that. “You sold the laptop I gave you,” he says, placing Bucky Bear on the cushion and picking the new machine up.

“Put that down,” Rumlow demands, crossing his arms as Bucky sets it back onto the couch. “Yeah, I did. Like I was gonna trust that it wasn’t bugged?”

“Like I couldn’t break in and bug the new one,” Bucky retorts. He lets Bucky Bear stay by the laptop as he turns his attention to the rest of the apartment. He’s not looking for anything, really, but there’s a kick in invading Rumlow’s space.

“You said your piece last time.” Rumlow’s glowering. He doesn’t move from the end of the hallway, even as Bucky stops before the weights and punching bag he’d been so defensive of when last Bucky was around. “So what are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question.” There isn’t any dust on the weights. “Why’d you move from D.C. to New York? Not like the rent’s cheaper here.”

“What does it matter to you?” Rumlow asks. He’s practically leaning against the wall—lying in bed all day can’t help with the stiffness of scar tissue—and as Bucky just stares, he relents and goes to sit on the couch cushion farthest from Bucky Bear and the laptop. “After all the shit I said at your trial, when I was released from jail? Like I was gonna go back to the capitol where the helicarriers crashed. Where the politicians, cops, and any civilian with a chip on their shoulder’s itching to make an example of us HYDRA scum.” He shrugs. “I’m from New York. I know how to handle this city’s shit.”

“Better the devil you know,” Bucky mutters, unsure of where he learned the phrase but certain of its applicability.

“I guess.”

Bucky slips around the counter and into the kitchen, which is little bigger than a broom closet. Last time he was here, there were dishes in the drying rack. Now it’s empty. That could easily be Rumlow’s compulsion to maintain the illusion of order, but maybe he just hasn’t eaten.

He opens the refrigerator, and if Rumlow hears the pop of the door’s release, he doesn’t mention it. There’s beer, and Bucky imagines he’d find stronger liquor if he searched the cabinets. There’s a few Styrofoam containers, some of which probably contain more mold than food now. In the freezer, there’s an open box of Hot Pockets and a few unopened microwave meals.

Taking one can of beer, Bucky closes the door. “If you’re going to wallow in self-pity, you could at least treat yourself to something that tastes good.”

Rumlow, who’s been staring off into space, snaps his head up. “Put that back where you found it.”

With a roll of his eyes, Bucky turns to the fridge again. “Just saying. If you’re resolved to rot in misery, you could do it in style.”

“Yeah. I’ll be sure to tailor my existence to your standards in the future.” Rumlow shakes his head. “Are you done with the commentary, or do you want to go through my closet next? What, should I be rotting in Armani?”

“Your floors are filthy,” Bucky says simply, replacing the beer on the shelf.

“Then fucking sweep them.”

There’s a broom sandwiched in the thin crevice between the fridge and the wall. Bucky tugs it out to find a thin layer of dust over the handle. The Commander he remembers would have busted a gut over the mildly neglected state of this place. He was always making his team scrub out the safe houses. “Well, if you’re going to be lazy.” He positions his hands on the broom. A faint memory surfaces, fine and drifting as lace floating on a breeze, and he manages to grab hold. Another time, another floor. A woman showing him how to sweep. He was shorter then. “Anything else you can’t do for yourself?”

He can hear the smirk as Rumlow says, “Kill the Avengers.”

Bucky glares.

Any happiness from the memory of his mother immediately drains as he stares at the shit-eating grin on Rumlow’s face. And that’s even worse, because with the happiness gone, he’s left with the comfort—with the _pleasure_ —that still permeates his being when there are orders to follow. He can’t keep from flushing, thinking of the commands he’d followed without a moment’s hesitation. At least when he was HYDRA’s, he knew he was a puppet.

“You could never have accomplished that even before you were charbroiled,” he says. The broom stills, but stopping the task makes his skin crawl. Makes him _sad_. And it’s nice when he moves the broom again. Bucky tries not to think about that, tries to tell himself he’s only doing this because he’s the bigger person and it’s right to help the injured.

“That’s what you were for,” Rumlow says, and Bucky turns his back so he won’t have to see the smugness on the man’s face. “Hey, don’t really try to kill them when you run home, Soldier. I don’t think you have it in you anymore and I’d rather not deal with your babysitters storming down here.” 

“Don’t talk about my friends,” he snaps, trying not feel anything beyond the broom in his hands. “You don’t know a thing about them.”

“I know they have no idea how to handle you.”

Bucky goes still then, ignoring how it aches to disobey. He turns, eyes burning but completely dry. “I’m a human being. I don’t need a handler.”

“You should have seen the weight that lifted from your shoulders the second I gave you an order.” He looks so amused, so fucking _calm_ , that Bucky has to struggle not to throw the broom at his head. Rumlow would only order him to the corner if he did. And damn it, Bucky would go.

Rumlow wouldn’t make him apologize. Who makes a weapon say sorry?

“No one ever really leaves HYDRA,” Rumlow continues as Bucky’s fingers itch for a knife. “And sure as shit not after seventy years. Yeah, now you’re not meant to be a killer. Probably haven’t held a weapon since Rogers took you in, have you? They got you the best therapists, the strongest drugs. They let you run and play and tell you HYDRA can never touch you again, don’t they? But that stuff doesn’t wipe off just because you’re out of the field. Whatever else you are now, that doesn’t mean you aren’t still the asset. That’s burned too deep to ever fade away.”

“You’d know about burns,” is all Bucky says.

This time when Rumlow smiles, he hisses a breath through his teeth. “Yeah. I would. And you know the thing about burns, Soldier? They don’t vanish just because you walk away from the fire. Try and ignore them, and they’ll only fester and rot. Your new friends aren’t doing you any favors by pretending the Winter Soldier went down with the ships. They’re just leaving room for someone else to press your buttons. It’s like when people keep lions as house pets. It only ever ends bad.”

Bucky isn’t seeing Rumlow anymore. He’s looking at his own bedroom, Steve’s pale but carefully blank face, and a trembling hand laying a blade to Steve’s throat. His hand. Something goes snap and when he’s back in Rumlow’s kitchen again, he realizes it’s the broom handle.

“You’re gonna replace that,” Rumlow says mildly, and this time, the break comes from inside Bucky.

“So I should just waltz back into HYDRA?” he asks, his own voice so quiet and still.

“Attack dogs go on leashes. Let them run wild, and someone’s getting bit.”

“Maybe your eyes got a little screwed up when a building fell on you,” Bucky says, letting the broken broom clatter against the linoleum, “but I’m not a fucking dog.”

When Rumlow crosses his arms this time, it doesn’t look defensive in the slightest. He leans back, grinning as wide as his scarring will allow. “You sure?”

Again he can only see the blade to Steve’s neck. There’s a ringing in his ears, an acrid taste bubbling in his throat. The plates of his arm are shifting, grinding. “No.” He speaks suddenly, without thinking. “You don’t want me to go back to HYDRA. You want to take me there.”

“Hm?” Rumlow asks, so fucking calm.

“You’re a tamer without a lion. A soldier with a broken body. You used to control the world’s most powerful weapon and now you can’t even get yourself out of bed.”

Rumlow opens his mouth to speak, but Bucky doesn’t give him the chance.

“HYDRA hasn’t come to you because you’re nothing to them now. You failed and they don’t believe in second chances. If their operations hadn’t crumbled, they’d have made me tear you apart to set an example. And you’d prefer that, wouldn’t you? Better to be killed by the best than to waste away in some corner of the world where no one cares who you are. Is that the real reason you came to New York? Hoping the Winter Soldier would rip you to shreds, or would you settle for an Avenger?”

Rumlow’s lips part. His mouth moves as if to speak, but there’s no sound. Once, and again, like his voice has been stolen. Finally, he manages words. “I think you’re projecting.”

“Oh, that’s rich. _I’m_ projecting? Look in a fucking mirror.” His stomach is churning, but that only serves to fan the fire searing in his blood. “You’re the one with all that ‘you can never leave HYDRA’ crap. You’re the one so desperate to believe there’s no escape. Because you need to pretend they want you back, or you’ll crumble like ashes.”

“You—”

“The whole world knows what kind of a man you are now. HYDRA’s the only thing that would accept you for it, but then you went and got yourself crippled.” Bucky holds out the metal arm, its servos still grinding. “What, did you think they’d give you something like this? Think you’re worth that much to them? You’re nothing unless you could bring me back. But you can’t even do that, and you know it. So you give little orders to feel powerful, because you know I won’t give up my freedom. I’m stronger than that. The second I had free will, I saved Steve. You had it all along and you took a frightened child right back to his abuser.”

Rumlow’s face is reddened. Bucky can’t be sure if that’s shame or anger. “You don’t know the first thing about—”

“You had the choice I never had. And you decided my freedom—decided the lives of millions of innocents were acceptable losses to bring about your goals. But now you’ve lost and everyone’s seen what you really are, and the only people who ever thought you were valuable think you’re worthless. There’s nothing for you now. All that’s left of you is your failure. That’s what you are, a failure. Does it burn you up?”

And then Rumlow bolts upright, fists clenched and teeth grinding. He must know he stands no chance against the Winter Soldier, but he stalks forward regardless.

He doesn’t get the Winter Soldier. Bucky draws back, eyes wide, lip trembling, and so very, very, young. “Are you mad at me, Commander?”

The Commander freezes. He’s about a foot from Bucky and he still looks really angry. “Are you—you’re gonna pull—are you _fucking serious_?”

Bucky doesn’t answer. Bucky Bear might know a way to calm the Commander down, but Bucky Bear’s still sitting on the couch. With the Commander right in front of Bucky, so mad he’s shaking all over, the couch seems very far away.

Then the Commander yells, shoving past Bucky and driving his fist into the wall. The plaster cracks and Bucky yelps, running. He winds up huddled in a corner, arms wrapped tight around his legs and his face buried against his knees. He can hear the Commander still, breathing really hard. He doesn’t sound any less mad.

Bucky stays that way for a long time. His stomach is all twisted up, and he keeps his mouth shut tight for fear he might get sick. He can’t remember all his missions, but he just knows he’s never made the Commander so angry before. He doesn’t think he’s ever made _anyone_ that angry, not even his last daddy.

The Commander can punish the asset. And in the house with the snow, he said he’d punish Bucky if he was bad. Bucky’s been very bad.

He waits for it to hurt.

“Hey.” That’s the Commander’s voice, after a lot of quiet. “Hey, Sol—kid. Don’t.”

Bucky can’t look up. He’s shaking a little, his leg knocking into his steady left arm.

“Kid, it’s all right.”

How can it be all right? It’s not all right to hurt other people’s feelings, especially not when all that person’s friends are dead. And Daddy’s never mentioned it, but Bucky’s sure it’s never okay to keep mentioning burns around a person who was on fire. There’s nothing all right about this.

“Aw, c’mon, don’t do this,” the Commander mutters. Bucky hears footsteps and flinches, closing his eyes tight. “Here, you want this?”

He risks opening one eye, peeking up through his hair. The Commander is holding Bucky Bear.

“Here,” the Commander says. Bucky can’t read his face. “Don’t freak out on me, okay? Want to hold it?”

Bucky lifts his head up. He does want to cling to his bear, but the Commander must still be so worked up. And Bucky Bear likes being held by him anyway. “You can hold him,” he whispers.

“I don’t wa—” The Commander looks away, shaking his head. “Okay. Fine. Just get up, would you? You want a glass of water?” There are little bits of plaster stuck in his knuckles.

“Your hand’s hurt.”

“Huh?” He glances down. “It’s nothing. I’ll wash it out. Didn’t even feel it.”

Maybe the Commander’s just saying that. Grown-ups pretend things aren’t a big deal around Bucky all the time. But maybe he really can’t feel it because the burns messed his nerves up. And that would be all Bucky’s fault too.

“Are you mad at me?” he asks.

The Commander shuts his eyes and breathes out really slowly. “I’m not mad,” he says once his eyes open. “Now come sit on the couch, all right? Be good for me.”

Bucky wants to be good. He needs to be, after how awful he’s just been. He gets up, moving to the couch in a way Pepper would call “swift as a mouse,” going in a wide path around the Commander. He doesn’t want to get hit, and he doesn’t want to crowd the Commander after he’s upset him. Once Bucky’s seated, he won’t let himself draw his feet up on the cushion because his shoes are still on. It’s not comfortable; he needs to hug onto either his bear or his legs. But he’s supposed to be good.

The Commander goes into the kitchen. When he comes back out, he hands Bucky a glass of water. The Commander’s washed off the plaster, and while his skin looks scraped up and pink, he’s not bleeding. He’s still holding Bucky Bear, and that makes Bucky Bear really happy, which helps Bucky calm down. “Drink that.”

Bucky does. It’s nice when the Commander makes orders. It gives Bucky something to do and a way to behave. He drinks the whole glass before he speaks. “I’m sorry.”

The Commander sighs. He looks like he’s about to say something but then he closes his mouth, staring at the Bucky Bear on his lap. “Forget it, kid. Here, take your bear.”

“He likes you.”

Again, the Commander doesn’t answer right away. He just rubs his face with his hand and stares off down the hall. Then he picks up Bucky Bear and sets him down on the cushion between them. “Why’d you come back?”

Bucky’s hand closes gently around the bear’s foot. Bucky Bear’s fur is soft and nice and he doesn’t want his bear to feel sad about being put down. “To see you.”

This time, the Commander’s hand runs through his hair. There aren’t any scar lines Bucky can see on the Commander’s head, no spots where burns kept his hair from growing back. Bucky’s glad for that. He thinks he remembers the Commander being very fond of his hair. “Why?” he repeats. “Last time—I get that. You were flipping HYDRA the bird, saying I had fu—had nothing over you anymore. But now? Am I just that fun to tear down? You still that pissed?” He winces, shakes his head. “Yeah. Guess I’d be too.”

Frowning, Bucky nudges his bear closer to the Commander. “That’s not—I, uh, I like you.”

Now the Commander’s staring. He stares for so long that Bucky has to look away. “ _Why_? I helped keep you captive for fourteen years! Hell, I only testified for you to save my own ass. You dropped in to tell me I’m useless. What can you possibly like?”

This time, Bucky shuffles back as he moves the bear closer. “I dunno. You’re nice.”

“Nice?” The Commander laughs. Bucky hopes that means he’s cheering up, but he doesn’t look any happier. “ _Nice_. Christ, Pierce did a number on you, didn’t he?”

Bucky isn’t sure if he’s meant to answer that.

“What about when you’re an adult? Am I nice then?”

“I...” Now he’s pulling Bucky Bear toward himself. “I don—”

“How about when I took you to the techs to get brainwashed? That nice? Or when I let them put you in ice? I must have been so nice when I threatened to rat you out to your ‘Daddy’ to keep you in line, right?”

“I—I d-dunno,” Bucky stammers, and he’s clutching Bucky Bear to his chest, wiping at his eyes.

“Oh.” The Commander seems smaller somehow, even though he hasn’t moved. He’s blinking a lot too, but he isn’t crying. “No—hey. Don’t do that.”

“But I mess everything up!” He’s crying hard now, face pressed against his bear. Bucky Bear’s going to need a bath when they get home, and that’s his fault too. He should never have come here; the Commander doesn’t like him and Daddy’s going to be so mad when he finds out.

“Soldier. Kid. Winter. Look.” The Commander’s hand is on his shoulder and, sniffling, he glances up. “You didn’t mess anything up, all right? I did.” He’s holding Bucky’s shoulder, but he’s not resting any of his hand or arm’s weight there. It looks awkward, like it strains his scars. “I kept pushing when I knew I should back off.”

Bucky wipes at his nose with the back of his hand. “But I pushed first.”

“Well, yeah, but—” He cuts off, flinching as Bucky sniffles again. “Just. Just breathe, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Bucky breathes, watching the Commander disappear into his bedroom. He tries to keep each breath slow and deep, the way Bruce taught him to do to meditate, but Bucky’s never been very good at meditating. And his breaths keep coming out shallow and shaky.

When the Commander comes back, he’s holding a handkerchief. He’s walking funny. He always walks funny now, but Bucky isn’t used to it yet. The Commander never moved that way in his memories. “Here, look at me.” He presses the fabric to Bucky’s nose, wiping gently. “Stop crying, all right? You can’t cry here. That’s—uh, it’s a rule.”

So Bucky stops crying. The Commander doesn’t look exactly happy when the noise stops, but he does seem relieved. “Should I go?” Bucky’s already broken the crying rule a lot. He probably won’t be allowed back.

“Ye—not yet.” The Commander guides Bucky’s hand up to the handkerchief before he lets go. “We need to sort out—and you should calm d—here.” On the cushion between them sits the laptop. The Commander opens it up. “You wanna watch TV? Or a movie? And then we can talk after that?”

Bucky looks down at his bear, who thinks they should do whatever the Commander wants. He tries giving the handkerchief to Bucky Bear, but Bucky Bear doesn’t need it. “’Kay.”

The Commander settles back against the couch at that. “Good. What do you want?” He doesn’t go to Netflix or Hulu, opening up Google instead. “Star Wars? Uh, The Hunger Games?”

“Sleeping Beauty,” Bucky mumbles, putting down the handkerchief and hugging Bucky Bear a little tighter. He goes back and forth on whether his favorite princess is Aurora or Ariel. Ariel saves princes and runs away and she’s a mermaid, which is really cool, but sometimes he’d rather watch Aurora. Aurora doesn’t have to face dragons or witches because there are people protecting her. It’s not as exciting, but it’s nice.

The Commander turns to look at him. “The Angelina Jolie movie?”

Wrinkling his nose, Bucky says, “The cartoon. The Disney one.” He saw the movie about Maleficent once and he didn’t like it much. Evil fairies shouldn’t also be caring mothers. It makes his stomach hurt.

Instead of typing in the movie’s name, the Commander just stares at him for a few seconds more. Bucky shifts, worried he’s broken another rule, but then the Commander just sighs and looks down at the keyboard. “Disney it is, then.” He sounds resigned, the way he used to on missions when they didn’t have enough supplies or time but had to go on anyway.

“You don’t have to—”

“Talking back’s also against the rules.”

It takes the Commander a few minutes to find the movie; he clicks link after link, moving the laptop onto his legs while he looks for what he calls a safe site. Bucky takes the opportunity to scoot over, wriggling closer until he’s on the middle cushion and right next to the Commander. He’s still holding both Bucky Bear and the handkerchief, although he’s not crying at all now.

The Commander glances over and twitches but doesn’t pull away. He just shakes his head and starts the movie.

Bucky’s seen _Sleeping Beauty_ enough times to have all of the songs and most of the words memorized, but it’s never boring. Bucky Bear likes it too; his favorite part is always when the fairies fight about the color of the princess’s dress. Bucky can feel the Commander’s eyes on him, like he’s watching Bucky instead of the movie, but Daddy does that sometimes too. Maybe the Commander doesn’t like cartoons.

He doesn’t think Agent Rollins liked kids’ shows either, in the house with the snow.

Biting his lip, he squeezes Bucky Bear a little tighter, trying to focus. He doesn’t want to think about Agent Rollins right now. Bucky’s eyes are sore from the crying earlier and, as three good fairies are talking about how to keep the princess safe, he rubs his cold metal fist against them. He doesn’t realize he’s been slouching and leaning until his head brushes against the Commander’s shoulder.

Again, the Commander goes stiff. Bucky does too, waiting for an order to move. But the order doesn’t come.

The Commander doesn’t say anything until Maleficent’s getting mad at her servants for not finding Princess Aurora. Bucky’s head is still on his shoulder then, but he’s not tense all over now. “Hey, kid.”

“Uh-huh?”

“Uh.” The Commander seems to hesitate. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”

“’Kay.”

The next time that the Commander speaks, it’s not until the kings are fighting about how fast their kids should get married. Bucky’s really leaning against his arm now, eyes half-shut. He doesn’t usually get so sleepy in the middle of the day, but crying makes him tired and it was hard to fall asleep last night. “Kid.”

“Mmm?” Bucky asks. Halfway through, it starts coming out as a yawn instead.

“If I ask you something, you’ll be honest with me, won’t you?”

His eyes drift shut, but then the Commander’s hand is on his hair, very gentle, and they flutter open again. “Yeah.”

“Why do you come here?” the Commander asks. “What do you get outta this?”

Bucky tries to shrug, but that just make him end up with his head resting at the crook of Rumlow’s elbow. The scars feel funny under his cheek, both bumpy and too smooth. “I like seeing you.”

The Commander’s quiet then. Bucky’s eyes close two more times, but he makes himself open them back up. He doesn’t want to miss the prince fighting the dragon.

It’s not until Princess Aurora is heading toward the spindle that the Commander asks another question. He’s still stroking Bucky’s hair. “Why do you like seeing me, kid? Don’t I just remind you of being locked up?”

“Um, kinda?” Bucky doesn’t remember being locked up very well. The chair made it hard to remember where he went after the memory wipes were done. He knows he was in ice, and he thinks of that when he’s with Rumlow, but there’s more than just that. “But there’s other stuff too...like missions where I did good. Or when you were nice and I was little and scared.”

There’s more quiet, like the Commander’s thinking this over. Usually the music when Aurora’s about to prick her finger is loud and scary, but Bucky barely hears it now. He thinks the Commander must have changed the volume at some point.

He shuts his eyes. When the Commander speaks again, Aurora’s lying asleep on the floor.

“You live with a bunch of people who are nice to you now. Why do you need to see me?”

“Uh.” These aren’t easy questions, and especially not when he’s sleepy. The Commander’s nice, and why wouldn’t he want to see a nice person? But that’s not always how he feels. Sometimes, when he’s grown-up, it’s a lot blurrier than that. “’Cause Bucky Bear likes you. And I wanna...um, understand?”

“Understand what?” the Commander asks. His fingers are still on Bucky’s hair, tickling his ear a little when he moves them, but not enough to make Bucky squirm.

“Everybody else’s always the same.” He yawns again. Daddy, Tasha, Clint: They talk to him differently when he’s big or little, and they play different games, but they’re always really nice. The Commander’s not like that. “But...sometimes I think you’re nice and sometimes not...I just.” He shuts his eyes. “Wanna understand. Uh. Why I like you.”

He thinks he’s going to fall asleep, but then the Commander’s hand stops. Bucky had liked that—it reminded him of Dum-E—and so it wakes him up a little when the Commander quits.

“You shouldn’t like me,” the Commander says softly.

“Can’t help it,” he mumbles. That’s what his doctors always say, that it’s all right to feel however he feels. Even if that means missing his last daddy or thinking that some of the people he shot made funny faces when they were dying. And liking the Commander doesn’t make his stomach hurt as much as either of those other things.

“I make you upset,” says the Commander. “I made you cry. Why would you want to come back?”

Bucky’s not watching the movie now, staring cross-eyed down at Bucky Bear and his hands around him. His metal fingers gleam in the light and he kind of feels the need to suck his thumb, but he doesn’t want to let go of his bear. “You’d be lonely. You don’t...have...Agent Rollins anymore.”

When he says that, the Commander goes really tense. Bucky blinks a few times. He’s still tired, but the jolt through the Commander wakes him up a bit. He thinks he shouldn’t have mentioned Agent Rollins. The Commander’s probably going to tell him to go home now.

But the Commander doesn’t say anything. And the quiet gets louder and louder until Bucky can’t help but speak.

“I miss him too. He was nice and he carried me.”

The Commander doesn’t talk.

“I drew for him, remember?” Bucky asks. “At the place with the snow.” He doesn’t remember the exact pictures anymore, but he remembers Agent Rollins hadn’t been happy. “He...I don’t think he liked my pictures, but he never said. He was nice. And I think—he used to sing when he drove? And you got mad, remember? That was funny.”

He doesn’t expect an answer, so he starts a little when the Commander says “He couldn’t carry a damn tune in a bucket.”

Bucky smiles. He couldn’t remember that phrase until just now. “You always said that.”

“Yeah.” The Commander sounds far away, like the movie does now that the volume’s down. “I did.” He doesn’t sound sad, just distant.

“I miss him too,” Bucky says. He feels suddenly heavy all over with the force of the missing, and he shuts his eyes again.

He thinks he’s still awake when the Commander next speaks. He says, “You know, last week was Jack’s birthday.”

And maybe the Commander’s been in bed all week. Maybe he spent his best friend’s birthday all alone. Where’s Agent Rollins buried? Could the Commander even go visit?

All that, and then Bucky showed up and was mean to him. His stomach twists. “We should get a cake for his next birthday,” he mutters. “So we can remember.”

If the Commander answers, Bucky’s definitely already asleep.

By the time he wakes up, the laptop isn’t balanced on the Commander’s knees anymore. Bucky’s lying all the way down with his head in Rumlow’s lap, the bear still wrapped in his arms and sandwiched between his body and the couch cushions. There’s a hand resting on his head, but no longer petting. It just sits there, as though Bucky’s a part of the furniture.

He fell asleep in Rumlow’s apartment.

He fell asleep on _Rumlow._

Bolting up at the realization, Bucky’s heart nearly stops. _Can’t sleep here, it’s not safe to sleep here, if I—if he saw—_

If Bucky’s wet himself in front of Rumlow—on _top_ of Rumlow—he’ll have no choice but to flee the country. He’ll probably have to kill Rumlow as well. And maybe burn down the building, just to be safe.

But he hasn’t.

He’s almost hyperventilating on the couch, and Bucky Bear’s fallen to the floor, but his pants are dry. And the stare Rumlow’s giving him is one of concern, not mockery or disbelief.

“Whoa, kid,” he says. “You almost broke my nose, you got up so fast.”

“It could only have improved your looks,” Bucky mutters, reaching down for his bear. He watches through the hair hanging in his face as surprise and then relief washes over Rumlow’s features.

“Good morning to you too,” he says finally, crossing his arms. “Did the movie satisfy you, or did you need a juice box and a story to go with it?”

“You don’t have any juice boxes.” Bucky bites his tongue before he can say that Rollins told the better stories, disgusted with himself for even thinking it. Rumlow’s a bastard, but even he doesn’t deserve that strain of salt in his wounds.

“What a shame. Guess I’ll have to stock up for your next visit.”

Bucky wants to take out his phone and check the time—has he been out long enough for people to worry?—but he doesn’t want to show any sort of vulnerability now, however minor. He won’t open himself up to comments about how he can’t care for himself, how he was safer as the asset. “Next time, you’ll have to make pancakes.”

“There had better not be a next time, Soldier,” Rumlow says, his smirk giving way to seriousness.

“Like you could stop me.” He regrets it the instant he’s spoken. Why is he always at Rumlow’s throat this way? What can it possibly achieve?

“Want to find out?” They both know it’s bravado, but Bucky doesn’t call it out, turning to the window.

“For fuck’s sake,” Rumlow says. He sounds tired. “At least pretend to be a normal person and use the damn door.”

And just like he had with the broom, Bucky obeys. He’s so full of relief again that he could vomit all over the floor.

Rumlow, thankfully, appears to write it off as a choice rather than blind obedience. He stands and, though Bucky knows that’s not possible, his scarring almost seems to creak with the effort. “It’s been great,” he says curtly, “but I’ve got a lot of rotting in misery to do, so—”

“I won’t say best of luck.” Bucky pauses in the doorway. “I know you’d find it—”

“To be bullshit?”

“I was gonna say patronizing.” His fingers twitch around Bucky Bear, resisting the urge to make his little paw wave goodbye. “But I will say thank you.” And then he blinks, surprised at himself. Where had that come from?

Rumlow looks equally confused. “For what? Giving you something to laugh at?” He’s almost as quick to pull up his shields as Steve.

“For being honest,” Bucky says. And weirdly, that’s true. Rumlow’s an ass and most of what he says is awful, but he doesn’t sugarcoat things. At least, not when Bucky isn’t five. And, living in a tower of soft voices and reassurances, that’s oddly refreshing.

He wants to say more. He wants to tell Rumlow that he’s sorry about Rollins, and that even though the cake was a terrible plan schemed up by a sleepy child, he’d be willing to do it. But he knows Rumlow would find it insincere. He’d take it as the cruelest kind of insult.

So all that Bucky says, over his shoulder is, “Pancakes and juice boxes next time.” And then he’s gone.

He can feel an urge to curse Rumlow bubbling in his throat as he walks home. Thoughts returning to the things Rumlow had said—that Bucky was an attack dog, that he needed orders, that he should slaughter his friends—Bucky can imagine the words he’d use. His mother would have slapped him silly if she heard any of the phrases he’s even _thinking_ to describe his former handler.

But what’s the use of giving that anger a voice? It would only ring hollow and hang in the air. There wouldn’t be any catharsis. He doubts there ever can be when it comes to Rumlow. _You’re nice,_ he’d said, and his face flushes at the memory. Even now, he can’t shake it. Rumlow’s vulgar. He’s tactless. He wears his spite proudly on his sleeve now that he doesn’t have to hide. But there’s something almost pleasant in that. There’s truly a comfort in his horrible honesty. And he had moments of kindness, even though they offer no absolution.

Bucky shakes his head. He should talk to his therapists about this. He can’t tell Steve or the others, can’t worry them with his own stupid choices, but he needs to hash it out with _someone_. Visiting his former captor and expecting anything other than pain is probably a sure sign that he needs his meds adjusted.

But he knows that he won’t. He needs one thing in the world that hasn’t had a light shined on it, one feeling that hasn’t been dissected, weighed, and analyzed until it doesn’t even seem like a part of him anymore. Might as well make that the thing that would earn him a full therapy session’s worth of scolding.

When he returns to the tower, it’s just dinner time. He enters the dining room, finding his spot set and the table lined with his friends. Bucky walks to his chair, sucks on his smoothie, smiles. No one gets hurt.

He tells himself that the flood of relief he feels is from being back with his real friends. It’s not from obeying Rumlow’s order: _Don’t really try to kill them when you run home, Soldier._

Not at all.

*

“All ready, tiger?” Tony asks as Bucky steps out of the bathroom, pulling back the covers on the bed.

Bucky nods, tugging on the hem of his pajama shirt. He lies down and lets Tony pull the covers over him. When Daddy’s home, he just lays the covers on top of Bucky, but Tony does it different. He nudges some of the blankets under Bucky, tucking them in tight around him. Once he’s all snuggled in blankets, Tony hands him his bear.

“Did you two have fun today?”

“Uh-huh.” And it was fun, mostly, so it’s not lying if he skips the part where he got mad and then scared and sad. He said the toy store was fun when they went to get Tasha’s Red Panda even though the bunny there had made his tummy hurt. So it’s okay to say that today was fun.

“Good,” says Tony, ruffling his hair. “The lab was pretty quiet today. Dum-E was asking about you.”

“I’ll go see him tomorrow,” Bucky says, and Tony promises to let Dum-E know.

He reads Bucky a new story tonight. It’s about a fox that keeps tricking a bunch of other animals. They all want to join up and have him put to death, but Bucky thinks the fox is funny and smart enough to find his way out. When the story’s over, Tony gives them both kisses: one of Bucky’s forehead, and one on Bucky Bear’s nose. “Did you like it?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s good. Sleep tight, kiddo. Don’t let the nanobots bite.”

“Nanobots?”

“I’ll show you some tomorrow.”

He doesn’t fall asleep right away. Staring up at the dark ceiling, Bucky suddenly remembers. “JARVIS?”

**YES, MASTER BARNES?**

“Can you remind me tomorrow that I need to get a broom?”

JARVIS doesn’t question it. **IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE?**

Bucky considers it. “And a cake, too.”

**VERY WELL, MASTER BARNES.**

Bucky’s asleep before he can decide on a flavor.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the O+S song, ["Lonely Ghosts."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N0XuE3JII1o)
> 
> The bed time story that Tony reads is Reynard the Fox.


End file.
